The seasons follow one another. In the house, the children grow, their laughter mingling with the heavy steps of the father returned from the sea. The estate prospers, harvests are made, servants bustle about.
But in the wife's chamber, silence reigns.
Each evening, she waits a moment, hoping to hear her husband's footsteps. Sometimes she lights the oil lamp, leaves the screen slightly open. But the steps never come. Then she blows out the flame and slips alone beneath the covers, one hand resting on the empty space beside her.
Yi, meanwhile, spends his nights elsewhere: in his study, bent over maps, or sitting alone in the courtyard under the moon. His silhouette is straight, his eyes dark. But in the silence, his fist sometimes tightens, seized by a fear he cannot name.
Far away, in the isolated residence, the concubine given to him by the king still lives. She could have been an escape, a convenient outlet. No one would have blamed a general for turning to her.
But Yi has never considered it. Never.
His body, his desires, his turmoil have meaning only beside one woman: his wife. And it is precisely for that reason that he imposes this torment upon himself.
One night, as he returns late, she sees him pass before her room. She rises, her hair loose, holding a lamp in her hand.
— "My husband… it has been moons since you last came."
He stops, but does not turn his head. His back is straight, unmoving.
— "You nearly died once. I will not risk it happening again."
A silence falls. Her fingers tighten around the lamp. She lowers her eyes, her voice broken but soft:
— "Then I will live… but only halfway."
He does not answer, resumes his steps. His shadow disappears down the corridor, swallowed by the night.
In her bed, she stifles a sob. No reproach, no anger; only the ache of a woman who loves a rock that refuses her.
Far away, Yi sits in the courtyard, his face turned toward the sea. The cold wind blows, and in his hardened eyes, a fleeting shimmer of turmoil appears. He clenches his fists tighter, his breath heavy.